Tuesday, February 23, 2010

I think a friend of mine, someone I met online, might have killed himself. And, um, I may have sth to do with it? because of my last e-mail? But I don't know how you dissuade someone who wants to die. If they're resolute about it, if you decide to kill yourself, it becomes a challenge. If you're not able to go through with it, maybe you feel like you have failed yourself.

What could I tell him anyway? When someone wants to die, there's no right or wrong thing to say, either way they'll do what they'll do. Plus, I have thought about the virtues of suicide, so...

The noise inside my head is so high-volumed, I ...I...forget what I want to say. No, this is a good thing. I'm just thinking electric saws here. I don't want him to have died because of sth i said or didn't say.

Sunday, February 21, 2010

I'm so sleepy. Like my mind is a pair of swollen, heavy-lidded eyes, refusing to open to the new day.

I was reading Frisk while in the toilet this morning and I read this phrase, something about assholes being unable to communicate their owners' feelings, which made me think whether the Asshole could be The Window to The Soul.

I'm certain there are morose assholes out there, or cheeky ones, or playful, or depressed...Imagine a mixed medium exhibit - photographs and text - or whatever. I don't know why I'm thinking of assholes this early in the morning. Probably because they make me happy.

I'm also thinking, God, help me get through this day, and, i hope i won't be late, and how nice it would be to go to the Library like I used to in early-spring afternoons, or go have a beer after work, let the whole thing drag till midnight...The simple pleasures in life.

I seem to be endlessly procrastinating. And now I have to go to the loo again. My stomach is a mess. I shall have to incorporate this somewhere. I'm just a struggling writer, anyway.

"I thought of how the movies depicted death. Very often it was a very wide red slash against a vastness of slow, soft snow. In his dream, the aggrieved survivor leans over the dead, mangled body of the beloved one. He presses a kiss to the cold, blue-ish lips. The beloved's eyes already frosted with a deathly film. A poetic picture, indeed.

I thought I knew death too intimately by now to indulge in such fantasies. Death was not like the opera. You kissed a dead person, and yourlips touched cold, unfeeling marble. A morbid, helpless sensation. You kissed and you kissed and they never came alive. He never came alive, not even in my dreams."